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Updated: June 2, 2025
She was like every one else, a congeries of contradictions and inconsistencies, but obedient to the general expectation of what a girl of her position must and must not finally be. Provisionally, she was very much what she liked to be. Margaret Vance tried to give herself some reason for going to call upon the Dryfooses, but she could find none better than the wish to do a kind thing.
"I like to think that there is one soul uncontaminated by the sense of money in this big, brutal, sordid city." "You mean two," said Alma, with modesty. "But if you stifle at the Dryfooses', why do you go there?" "Why do I go?" he mused. "Don't you believe in knowing all the natures, the types, you can?
If we felt sure that honest work shared by all would bring them honest food shared by all, some heroic few of us, who did not wish our children to rise above their fellows though we could not bear to have them fall below might trust them with the truth. But we have no such assurance, and so we go on trembling before Dryfooses and living in gimcrackeries." "Basil, Basil!
We do all kinds of things, and help all kinds of people in some ways, but we let strangers remain strangers unless they know how to make their way among us." "The Dryfooses certainly wouldn't know how to make their way among you," said Beaton, with a sort of dreamy absence in his tone.
Which of them plays?" "Neither. But the eldest heard that the banjo was 'all the rage, as the youngest says. Perhaps you can persuade them that good works are the rage, too." Beaton had no very lively belief that Margaret would go to see the Dryfooses; he did so few of the things he proposed that he went upon the theory that others must be as faithless.
It isn't made up of refined or meritorious people professors and litterateurs, ministers and musicians, and their families. All the fashionable people there to-night were like the Dryfooses a generation or two ago. I dare say the material works up faster now, and in a season or two you won't know the Dryfooses from the other plutocrats.
She was of the church which seems to have found a reversion to the imposing ritual of the past the way back to the early ideals of Christian brotherhood. "Oh, they seem to have Mr. Beaton," Margaret answered, and Beaton felt obscurely flattered by her reference to his patronage of the Dryfooses. He explained to Wetmore: "They have me because they partly own me.
March told him what he had forgotten to tell him the day before, though he had been trying, all through their excited talk, to get it in, that the Dryfooses were going abroad. "Oh, ho!" cried Fulkerson. "That's the milk in the cocoanut, is it? Well, I thought there must be something." But this fact had not changed Mrs. March at all in her conviction that it was Mr.
"It can't be their money; it can't be!" sighed Mrs. March. "Well, I don't know. We all respect money." "Yes, but Miss Vance's position is so secure. She needn't pay court to those stupid, vulgar people." "Well, let's console ourselves with the belief that she would, if she needed. Such people as the Dryfooses are the raw material of good society.
I told her so, and she understood, and cried a little; but she did the best she could with the thing, and I took it and syndicated it. She kind of stuck in my mind, and the first time I went to see the Dryfooses they were stopping at a sort of family hotel then till they could find a house " Fulkerson broke off altogether, and said, "I don't know as I know just how the Dryfooses struck you, Mrs.
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